The Green Squire [open!]

[Aerion Storm]

It was thrilling, a bit of freedom.  The letter and the jingling coins, the trusty mare and the open road, the comparative quiet of riding without all the noise of Ser Harbert's entire retinue (to say nothing of the noise of the boisterous Ser Harbert himself).  Aerion Storm was something like a free man, at least for as long as his little tourney route took him.  

"Off you go, boy," his lord knight had said, looking on proudly as his younger squires loaded up Aerion's tourney lances into the little wayn.  "And show them what I've made of you!"

So here he was.  Tilting.  On his own.  It was all still Ser Harbert's equipment, though, mind you, and it was every inch Baratheon.  The wayn, his tabard, his shield, the quilted armor he wore beneath his battered mail and heavy cuirass, all of it was painted Stormlord yellow, had rearing black stags here and there and everywhere.  He was only a squire, yet, still technically in Ser Harbert's service, so the colors weren't his own, which was for the best.  He didn't have his own to wear, if he'd had to.  A tilting naked squire would've been quite a sight.

But oh, that day, he could have pulled it off.  His mail, so far, was just a reassuring weight.  It was un-scuffed, his tabard hadn't a lick of mud on it, his armor would barely need cleaning that night, his old brown mare was barely breathing hard.  Aerion Storm, the up-jumped squire, felt light as a feather and strong as Storm's End, the way he was riding.

His first opponent was some young lordling, with a moustache that looked newer than Aerion's beard, and a few pimples, yet.  Here I am, a man of twenty and a bit more, Storm glared through his visor, frustrated at the world, And still squiring.  He has a red Mooton fish on him and a red Mooton name from his lord father, and here he is, in spurs and anointed, but practically in diapers.

Aerion's loyal rounsey -- lacking a caparison, even, much less a noted bloodline -- charged.  Storm hunkered down behind his shield, steady on, focusing on technique, not power, form, not force.  The Mooton lad's lance tip only just nicked the edge of Aerion's shield, cracked lengthwise a bit instead of breaking.  Aerion's lance, though, landed perfectly.  He let his shoulder roll with the impact, kept himself steady in the saddle, just let the speed and the horses and aim and practice do the work;  the Mooton knight was blasted from the saddle, out cold before he even hit the hoof-churned turf.

Aerion was genial with him with his visor up, gracious in victory, the heart of chivalry after his opponent was roused and alert.  All smiles and brotherhood, collegial about the competition, out to help his brother jousters improve, not to hurt anyone, the very soul of a polite squire.  Of course, Ser, Aerion smiled, My factor will call upon Ser's factor, to see to the matter of ransom.

Bollocks, he grimaced to himself as he rode off, Damn your horse and armor, I wish I could take just your spurs.  He felt bad about the ill will later, though.  Petty.  Proud.  Like a bastard ought not feel.

He rode again, against a grizzled old hedge knight with sun-darkened leather for skin contrasting against a shock of white hair, at least half-Dornish, and riding a rounsey maybe even older than Aerion's.  Storm liked him immediately, except the Dornish bit.  He'd grown up among knights and Stormlords too much to like Dornishmen much.  The old hedge knight gave as well as the Mooton boy had;  just enough of a touch to break his lance and call it valorous, but knocked from his saddle as though the Warrior'd punched him.

The old man's armor didn't hold up as well as the plate-clad Mooton boy's had.  He was coughing a red fit when Aerion saw him next, having gone to check on him in the hospital tent.  He'd told the old fellow they'd handle the ransom when he was feeling up to it.  Aerion had no idea if the man could pay, or if he'd even ask him for it, or what on earth to do if the hedge knight couldn't.  A problem for later;  now, to tilt.

His third opponent was a Westerman knight with the purple unicorn of House Brax on a shining silver field.  The rest of him shone silver, too, his gleaming plate mail and the barding for his horse that cost a literal fortune;  not as rich or gaudy as Lannister gold, but not cheap, either.  Aerion knew of the man from his years with Ser Harbert.  He knew he liked to ride high in the saddle, looking down on his fellow knights.  He knew he leaned into the thrust at the last minute, out to hurt people.  He knew he liked to leave bruises on serving girls and page boys, worse bruises when he won than when he lost.  Aerion angled his shield again, rolled his shoulder again, denied him a good hit, again.  Then he just tapped the purple unicorn just so, just right, just enough, to send the man reeling into the mud, half-alive.

That was a ransom he wouldn't feel bad about.  No, not at all.

Aerion rode off, atop his prancing brown mare;  he had other riders to watch, from safe on the sidelines, while the heralds worked out scores and tallies.  He'd be uncomfortable there, among the highborn folk, but Ser Harbert had bade him do so.

"Rub elbows, lad, it will do you some good," his uncle had said.  "And consider it an order.  Who knows who you'll meet?"

Is it queer, I wonder, that I feel more fear taking a seat among nobles, than I do riding in the saddle against them?

[Baelon Drakeson]

"No disrespect intended, but are you really still a squire?"

Baelon approaches the man bearing Baratheon stags.
He could be Ser Orys' brother. Or cousin, at least. I wonder if he's Ser Harbart's own get?

"You handle a horse as well as - no, better than - most tourney champions I've seen, and your lance-skills are superb as well. There are some fierce competitors here, but if I were a betting man I'd be nervous that an unknown quantity like you had shown up. Unless you've made a name for yourself in the south? It's been some years since I've been anywhere near the Stormlands."

He smiles.

"If you win today among this field, I'd be tempted to knight you on the spot. I suppose angering Ser Harbart wouldn't be terribly wise though. Tell me, are you any good with a bow?"

[Aerion Storm]

Aerion wears his armor, in part because he's no squire to keep an eye on it for him, in part because it's acceptable for a jouster to remind folks of his martial status by wearing it, and in part because he's more comfortable with the reassuring weight of it wrapped 'round him. One reason for the last? It doesn't show to the rest of the world when his shoulders tense up.

"I have yet to earn my spurs, m'lord, though I'm told it will be soon," he pushes a smile past his usual tension, but Storm's a terrible liar, and there's no denying that the attempt at a friendly smile shows a bit of bitterness to it, "And I'm not unknown on the Southern circuits. Ser Harbert's shadow is easy to be lost in, however, and Southron knights fear the stag more than their squires fear the brocket."

"But aye, Ser Harbert's standards are high. And..." He pauses, perhaps nervous of being overheard, perhaps afraid he's almost speaking ill of his lord, but in the end he trusts in what he's heard of his host. "...and perhaps higher for me than for others."

If any might take his meaning, it may be this Drakeson he's heard of.

Then, though, his beard splits in a self-deprecating grin.

"And I'm not, I'm afraid. Terrible shot, despite trainings and cuffs. If it's farther away than the end of me lance, m'lord, I'm likely to miss even the ground."

[Baelon Drakeson]

Baelon mirrors the squire's grin. They seemed to be of an age, and with certain similarities of birth and circumstance - or at least, prior circumstance in Baelon's case - Baelon knew exactly what Aerion meant.

"That's a shame, though I cannot claim to be much better. I have a troop of mounted archers, you see, and I'm always on the lookout for good talent. I have those who are good riders, and those who are good bowmen, and some well enough at both - but precious few with true talent in both areas. It's not terribly surprising, really, I took a foreign concept and tried to mix it with traditional Westerosi heavy cavalry. It has turned out quite well, but finding talent is difficult. My maester says I'm not the first to think of the idea, and calls them 'cataphracts', but I just call them my Bloodriders - a nod to the Dothraki horselords that inspired the idea."

He smiles.

"Had you been skilled with the bow, I'd have made a generous offer for you to join my service, Ser Harbart's wrath be damned. Even still, if you ever find yourself in want of employment, come see me. Skills like yours should be rewarded, no matter who your parents are."

[Aerion Storm]

"You honor me, m'lord," What just happened? Recover, Storm. Talk like a man who knows what he's doing.

"I am scheduled to be in the area for some time. My letter from Ser Harbert grants me the honor of visiting multiple tourneys before I return. If I..." He stumbles a bit, flustered by even having such an offer before him. "If I find myself with the time, I would be honored to aid your horsemen, if I can, even if not sign on with them. As a senior squire, I'm quite accustomed to teaching others how to ride, inasmuch as it can be taught. I am foul with a bow, but fair with a saddle. I would repay the generosity of your offer with whatever lessons I might teach your men."

[Aerion Storm]

Across the tourney field, the smallfolk are less careful with their words than the squire is.

"'E's green, I heard."

"Shaddup 'bout politics, Cobb. Lord Drakeson don't care 'bout such right now, we're all just here for the little lord's birthin'!"

"Naw, not like that -- well, aye, like that, too, but shut up, yourself -- I mean I heard someone called 'im 'green,' like...like a sapling."

"Who?"

"Someone."

"You ent mysterious, Cobb, so don't you try to be. Why'd they call Ser Harbert's squire a bloody sapling? Lookin' for a fight? Everyone knows Ser Harbert can't stand the Reach Lords, and all their green hands and grapes and vines and such."

"Well, they didn't bloody call Ser 'Arbert green -- well, fuck, they did, but th'other kind, shut up -- they called his squire green. Like, still growin'. That sort o' green."

"Well, fuck that, I say. I've never seen a green deer, have you?"

"If I made a list, 'Arry, of every bloody thing you've never seen, we'd be at it all day."

"You get saucy with a little drink in you, Cobb, you really do. Saucy. But I say calling him green is daft. He's no Tyrell or Gardener, no Tarly, no -- "

"No Baratheon, neither. E's a Storm, is all."

"Aye, but...look at him! I say he's a stag. Just a wee one, is all. Still growin', but not some bloody tree. He's a brocket."

"..."

"What?"

"What th'hell's a brocket, 'Arry?"

"It's like a deer, innit. A young one."

"That's a fawn, mun."

"Piss off! It's a brocket. I talked to a Maester once, in the market, I know what I'm about. They're called brockets, the stags not quite grown."

"I know what you're 'about,' too, 'Arry. You're about to get your bloody arse kicked, you tell me to piss off again!"

"Shut up, 'nother tilt's about to start. Let's just watch the match, aye?"

"Oh, ayyyyye, m'lord maester. As it please you, m'lord maester. Read a book and educate us simple folk, m'lord maester. Hmph. You and your brockets. Brocket. Whoever heard such a thing? He's green, I tell ye."

"Piss off!"

[Baelon Drakeson]

"A kind offer, but unnecessary. You are a guest at my lands, and I ask naught fr my hospitality but that you enjoy it and for you to continue to give us all a good show in the lists."

He smiles.

"Though you'll forgive me if I don't wish you too much victory, as I suspect we will face each other at some point. I look forward to facing you - it's been a while since I've had a good challenge."

He clasps the Stormlander on the shoulder.

"You might want to give some thought to whom you would name as Queen of Love and Beauty, though, so you don't look unprepared if you win. I have a wife, so my choice is simple. You, however, have options... and who knows? You may win a heart as well as purse heavy with coin. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other guests I must talk with as well. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Master Aerion."

[Aerion Storm]

Aerion nods to the lord's dismissal.  He hadn't expected to be taken up on the offer, but he felt like returning the generosity, the only way he could.

"I look forward to the heralds proclaiming the finalists, m'lord," he says with a smile, but there's a new uncertainty in those dark blue eyes of his, at mention of the Queen of Love and Beauty.  His choice isn't simple.  

"Of course, Lord Drakeson, I wouldn't wish to keep you from your duties as host.  I thank you for your time, as it is."  

As the Drakeson walks off, though -- leaving Aerion momentarily alone in the watching area -- Storm's mind is racing.  Squire-only tourneys didn't bother with a Queen of Love and Beauty.  No one cared who a squire thought lovely, especially the younger ones;  a blood-addled thirteen year old lad would offer a crown of flowers to a big-titted servant wench, without a second thought.

But here...a victory may cost him dearly.  Gold aside, prestige be damned, it would force him into a different sort of contest, and one he knew full well he wasn't armed for.  That crown of flowers could start a war if the wrong Lady wanted it, and even well-intended, there may be women who thought a bastard's favor would be insult, as well.  

With just a hint of desperation around his eyes, now, Aerion turns to scan the assembled nobles, searching for some sort of guidance.  He can't let the distraction cost him his focus on the field, but he also can't entirely put off thinking about it.

Maiden, Mother, Crone, I beg you.  The Warrior has not prepared me for this.  Give me a smile, a gentle hand, or let your lantern give this stupid bastard a clue.

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

He was broken from his deep thoughts by a voice behind him.

"Ser? A moment, if you will."

[Aerion Storm]

It takes him a few heartbeats to answer. Not purely because he's lost in thought, but because..."Oh."

Idiot, she means you.

"I am no Ser, m'lady, I'm sorry." he says as he turns, but says it around a smile. One with a bit of wryness to it, or perhaps weariness. No doubt she meant to speak to someone else. "Only Aerion Storm."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Upon turning, he found before him a slender young woman with the familiar poised bearing of a noble, long waves of black hair accentuated by small decorated braids, and huge sky blue eyes set against Andal pale skin. She was clad in a tasteful gown of dove grey and sage green, with a unique necklace of a silver arrowhead, flanked by four shadowcat claws, gilded at the tips
And spaced by beads and knotwork. She had a cloak of silver shadowcat fur around her shoulders, evocative of some wildling princess, though tempered by her otherwise traditonal style.

"Ah. My mistake," she replied, congenially. "Pleased to meet you, Aerion Storm. I am Lady Corrine Marsten. I just wanted to tell you in person that I greatly enjoyed your impressive performance."

Her smile was warm and genuine, and she extended her hand in greeting, palm down, fingers loosely curved.

[Aerion Storm]

She looks half a Stark, though twice as lovely. There's a stiffness to him at speaking to a highborn woman, the lady of a house, no less, and perhaps a bit of color in his cheeks.

"You honor me, my lady," he takes her hand and bows over it, not gracelessly, but with perhaps less smoothness and confidence than he showed climbing into or out of the saddle. Civility is not hard for him, but the humility that follows comes around a bit of a thick tongue; he's not much of a liar for a bastard. "I am glad you've enjoyed it. I have been lucky so far, and my opponents all gallant in their own right. Fortune has favored me, but if the end result has pleased you, I've been lucky twice over."

Call it luck, not skill. Honor your opponents. Be humble. There. That wasn't so hard. Was it?

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"So modest," she commented, eyeing him with something like appraisal. "Such a thing does not always accompany men of talent. It is good to see. Should I be betting on you to be the final winner, Aerion Storm? she asked, playfully, lingering on his name a little, like she was toying with it. Trying to place it.

[Aerion Storm]

Genuine talk of tilting gets him a bit more animated, or maybe it's her smile, or the way she rolled his name in her mouth like she was tasting him.

"What knights remain in the lists do not know me, Lady Marsten, which plays in my favor. They've seen me tilt at most three times now, most like, and with only three passes, no less. That will help." He's not boasting, still, not quite. Just talking about something he knows, something he's good at. Something he loves. The words come more easily, his posture relaxes.

"Likewise, I lack spurs, so I imagine means most will cast long odds against me. If some gamblers think me a lucky little stag to have gotten this far, they may offer generous purses to those who throw coins on me to win."

"I...haven't the means to gamble, myself." No, you don't. Back down to reality now, aren't you, bastard? Don't forget what manner of coin a lady like her must have. Your advice means little and less to someone who was only even asking to be polite.

"But if I did, I would..." Another shrug, some of the stiffness back in him, the hard-taught urge not to boast to his betters. "...I would watch the contests carefully, see how well they do, and cast my coin based on who looked the most skillful."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She laughed in interested amusement. A bright, sonorous laugh, like a songbird.

"There's that modesty again. I think I will throw something down in your favour after all. At least then I'll know I'm not backing some coarse braggart. With such skill and humility, I am surprised you are not a knight. Whom do you serve?"

[Aerion Storm]

The tension returns, the stiffness. It's almost a flinch, try as he does to hide it, almost someone with an old wound that strangers keep prodding.

"I am honored to squire to Ser Harbert Baratheon, m'lady, of Storm's End." There is pride in his voice, though, not just the tiredness or hurt she might hear. Certainty. He speaks of Ser Harbert the way he longs to speak of himself. "Finest lance in the Realm."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Though perhaps not the finest for long, if you carry on as you have begun," she added, with a smile. "I jest. I have heard of him. He is a fine knight and lance, as I understand it, though I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him. Have you been to other tourneys recently? You look a little familiar, but I cannot place you. I think I would remember a jouster of your stature."

[Gwyneth Drakeson]

"Finest lance in the realm," says Gwyn as she comes over to see who Corrine is chatting with. "Pity it's stuck up his bum."

She grins at Aerion as she takes a spot beside Corrine.

"So. Who's your friend?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Corrine blushes and giggles at Gwyn's quip, but forces herself back into composure.

"Gwyn, this is Aerion Storm. Aerion, this is my cousin, Lady Gwyneth Drakeson."

[Gwyneth Drakeson]

"Aerion...that's a pretty name." Lady Drakeson held out a hand with almost the same kind of motion that Corrine had; an imitation born not of mockery but simply of having had the same teacher in the arts of ladyship.

"It sounds like something a star would be named, or a constellation."

[Aerion Storm]

"I...am not often a jouster, m'lady.  Not save against other squires, and that often early in the day, or late at night, or on some second, smaller, field."  And with few to watch save bragging, betting, fathers, or worried noble mothers.  Or smallfolk who just liked watching lordlings fall on their arses.

"I have been to a great many tourneys, though, aye.  For half my life now, or a bit more, and all over the realm.  I am easy to miss, though, in Ser Harbert's retinue."

Don't.  Don't do it.  Don't try it.  Stick to what you know, talk horses and knights, don't go trying to be gallant and flir--

"I am certain I would not forget you, Lady Marsten, had we met before."

Idiot.

A smile splits his beard again -- Gods be good, thanks for the distraction -- when the vibrant Lady Gwyneth arrives.

"Lady Drakeson!  I am honored to have your cousin's company, and yours, so soon after your Lord husband's."
 
String 'em together like that, almost makes you dizzy, doesn't it, bastard? He bends over her hand as well, being almost comically careful with his big hands and their smaller, finer, ones.

"He was most kind, as has the Lady Marsten been.  I see now why he's in such a fine mood."

He smiles at her compliment, "My mother named me after Lord Aerion Targaryen, of Dragonstone, m'lady. Father to Orys Baratheon. And, err, Aegon the Conqueror, I mean, as well as his sisters, of course."

Oaf. Stop lecturing ladies on history.

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

His compliment makes Corrine blush and grin.

He's nice. Were I not happily married...

[Gwyneth Drakeson]

Gwyn's eyes cut across to Corrine and give a quick, humorous roll.

Gods, that girl. Ben must have his hands full.

"That is a lordly name indeed," she says to Aerion. "I think there are some who would find it ironic. And yet, I have a different perspective on the matter. I'm little judge of skill in tourney, but Lord Drakeson is among the best. If he sees talent in you, then talent you have. Such talent can, if used wisely and well, take a man far beyond the circumstances of his birth."

She smiles at him. "You seem to me to be a man waiting for an opportunity. I hope when it comes you are ready, and vigilant enough to seize it."

[Aerion Storm]

"You flatter me, m'lady," he tries to stay humble again, but it's harder with two pretty women -- Ladies, even! -- heaping praise onto you. He fears he feels his cheeks heat up. "I can but do my best."

"I..." he falters for a moment.

Gods, this would be easier with more to drink.

"I wonder, Lady Drakeson, Lady Marsten, if it would be too rude of me trouble you with a question?"

[Gwyneth Drakeson]

Gwyneth chuckled.

"I'm always tempted to say no to that when I hear it, just to see how it's responded to. But yes, of course, Aerion Storm. Ask me freely."

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